Ten Kisses
by Cardio Necrosis
Summary: Ten unconnected first-kiss ficlets.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes: **I wrote most of these on their own as plot bunnies and never posted them because they weren't . . . enough to stand on their own, so I just threw them together. I will post two a day, so it'll take five days. Thanks to theletterv for reading through them all (and giving me the idea to post them).

Of Sparkles and Gay Cars

After a long, hard day of avoiding clinic duty, saving a patient with a last-minute diagnosis, and ogling Cuddy's breasts, he had returned to their loft and the smell of spices hit him as soon as he walked in through the door. Wilson had made it home first seeing as House had been busy with a dying girl named Laura or Sharon or something else uselessly unimaginative like that and had thoughtfully decided to cook something that smelled like heaven wrapped around lazy summer days.

"What the hell are you cooking? Smells like a dog died in here after eating the rotting corpse of your aunt's obese cat," he complained as he plopped down on their brand-new non-Wilson-y in essence couch. Oh, he would've been annoyed, except for that organ totally made up for any pansy-ass decisions Wilson had made concerning furnishing the place.

"Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't be interested, seeing as it smells so horribly," he answered as he plopped down beside him.

House sniffed and closed his eyes. "Baked spaghetti?" he offered carefully.

"Your olfactory talents never cease to amaze," Wilson murmured, then picked the remote from the coffee table.

"I think not," House stated and then tore the remote from Wilson's hand. "I let you keep it and I'll have to sit through yet _another_ Jimmy Stewart marathon." With that, he turned on the television and pulled up the TiVo list.

One of House's very few and trivial flaws (he operated under the assumption he was perfect in almost every way) was that he recorded things on the TiVo and went months without watching them. He'd once had an entire season of _The OC_ recorded for a little over a year. Wilson, on the other hand, always watched any of his recordings within two days and deleted them promptly.

It was only important because as he picked some show that had been recorded sometime in October; before _New Moon_ had been released. Had it never been for that commercial, they might never have kissed. Then again, had Hitler never invaded Russia, he might've been speaking in German and Wilson wouldn't have even existed so it really was fruitless imagining what sort of horrible, twisted world they would have lived in had House watched that show and deleted it long before they moved into their new loft, taking their treasured TiVo with them.

Conversation had been light, Wilson had grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge, and they'd sipped their cold drinks casually as the witty dialogue and self-important visuals danced before them. It wasn't until the second commercial break that House had nearly vomited in his mouth due to the incredulity he felt as having a preteen phenomenon try and sell something that most of the people who actually cared enough to squeal over the commercial couldn't even use for a few more years.

The voiceover had been smooth, delicate; the camera angles pretentious; the star of the commercial? Edward Sparkly-Assed Cullen, driving a Volvo through a winding road in the middle of an ever-so-green scenery. House had gaped, open-mouthed, at the sappily cinematic commercial in either disgust or depression; it was hard to tell which at the moment.

It wasn't until the final, epic sentence-_Volvo; the only car Edward trusts_-that House burst into laughter.

"Seriously? Has humanity gotten so pathetic that they have to use fad-based fictional characters that _suck_ to sell _cars?_ Some people, especially certain Mormon-worshipping illiterate housewives, shouldn't be allowed to breed."

"Yes, because hopping onto a bandwagon that is sure to gain loads of cash . . . That's idiocy. Fan or not, House, you can't deny the fact most people are eating _Twilight_ up with a spoon. I'm sure they just sold enough cars to guarantee their great-grandchildren tuition."

"You're just sticking up for the commercial 'cause you drive a Volvo."

"What can I say? I'm attached to that car."

"Why?" House asked incredulously, which had not been the first time. "That's the girliest car known to man. Just by driving it, your testosterone drops by at least thirty percent. It's a proven fact."

Wilson scoffed. "It is not a girly car. See? Edward drives it. And, according to Gina, he's _all man."_

"Who the hell is Gina?"

"My fourteen-year-old meningioma patient. Remember? She puked on your shoes."

House looked at him in confusion as some asinine food commercial played in the background. "Right, because getting puked on in this profession is so rare. Of course I remember Trisha."

"Gina. And this happened yesterday."

"Huh. Well, it doesn't matter. If she thinks that doom-and-gloom vampire who sparkles in the sunlight is all man, I'd hate to have to be there when she finds out her husband's cheating on her with a guy."

"House, Edward isn't gay."

"He wears body glitter and denies a warm-blooded seventeen-year-old girl the chance to hop up and down on his dick; he's gay. Further evidence-he drives a Volvo. That makes him _really _gay."

"I drive a Volvo," Wilson stated while he took a sip of his beer.

"Hmm, I guess that means you're gay, too," he quipped and faced the television.

Wilson hummed. "Well, if the shoe fits," he conceded.

House furrowed his brows and then turned his head to look at Wilson, who was staring nonchalantly at the TV and taking another sip of his beer, as if he hadn't said anything at all. "What?"

Wilson inclined his head a little in House's direction, but kept his eyes on the television. "Hmm?"

"What did you just say?"

Wilson shrugged and turned his full attention back toe the television screen. "Nothing really. Just that if the shoe fits, et cetera et cetera."

"Meaning . . . ?"

"That I should wear it. The shoe."

House stared at Wilson's completely casual profile, then at the television, then at Wilson again. Wilson didn't laugh or grin or blush or do anything that would indicate he was kidding around or legitimately coming out to him. House stared at his beer, calculated the odds of hallucinating over half a beer and the Ibuprofen he'd taken earlier, then sat it on the coffee table and stared at Wilson again in confusion. "Did you just come out to me?" he asked.

"It would appear so," Wilson admitted.

"So . . . What, you're gay?"

"Yes."

"As in homosexual?"

"Well, that is the connotation I was aiming for."

"Well . . . I mean, why?"

Wilson furrowed his brows and shrugged a little, taking another drink of beer. "Well, because when gazing upon the male form, I often become aroused."

House peered at him, staring at his completely still and casual posture. "You're lying," he stated.

Wilson finally looked at him. "You don't believe me?"

"Hell no, I don't believe you. You're the Great Panty Peeler of Princeton-you love women so much you keep marrying them."

"I also keep divorcing them. Hey, you're the one who's always making comments about the fact I blow-dry my hair and like musicals. I can't believe you're really all that surprised by this."

"You came out to me over Volvos and Edward Cullen."

Wilson sighed and plunked his beer on the coffee table. "House, really. I'm gay. Okay?"

"Prove it," House ordered, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

Wilson raised an eyebrow at him. "Prove that I'm gay."

"Yeah."

"You're actually making me do this."

"If you're so damn gay, it won't be a problem."

Wilson rolled his eyes and sighed in that faux-exasperated way that meant he was enjoying being dragged into doing something stupid. "All right," he grumbled.

His face moved towards House quickly, but not abnormally so-he could've been leaning in to whisper or rearranging his position. It was a smooth movement; not hasty or unsure. He stopped a few inches from House's mouth, eyes locked onto his and eyebrows raised. House didn't move; if Wilson was just kidding and he pushed forward, he might panic and splutter about it all being a prank and House would lose the one thing that really mattered. If he pulled away and Wilson wasn't kidding, they'd laugh it off and Wilson would never attempt to get with him again, if that was in fact what he was trying. No, House would not move an inch either way-this was all up to Wilson.

He brushed House mouth's gently and quickly, like a boy dared to kiss a girl by the swing sets, but when he pulled away it was only a centimetre; just enough that he could purse his lips and tilt his chin and they'd be kissing again. Which he, in fact, did-just as gently as before, but a fraction of a second longer.

House remained still; lips not pursed, but not open either. Wilson pulled away a little further, eyes still on House's and his Adam's apple bobbing. One smooth hand reached up hesitantly and held House's scruffy jaw, then he tilted his head and nudged House's lips again, and again, and again, and then his tongue flicked his bottom lip just enough that House could have pretended he imagined it if he'd wanted.

House closed his eyes and flicked his tongue outward at the same time Wilson did so they met, wary and wet and warm. The noise one of them made (House couldn't be sure who; he was far too occupied with analyzing evidence) was indescribable but quiet and sweet just the same, and thinking back on it he was sure it had been Wilson letting out a little, tiny hum of surprise.

To test his theory, he flicked his tongue again, a bit more insistently against Wilson's barely-open mouth, and he whimpered again-so quiet he'd only heard it because they were practically fused at the moment.

House nipped gently at Wilson's lower lip and they both pulled away, Wilson's hand still on his jaw but at least six inches between their mouths.

Wilson's pupils were large and glossy; his lips parted and his eyes furrowed as if confused, although he had been the one to make the first move with his little admittance. Perhaps he hadn't expected reciprocation or perhaps it really had been a prank with a satisfying, and surprising, end.

Wilson cleared his throat. "That proof enough?" he whispered.

"No," House muttered, and moved in again, meeting Wilson's pliant, and welcoming, mouth with a tad more force.

The timer dinged, signalling that the baked spaghetti was done.

They let it burn.

Better Than Chocolate

Their first kiss was sweet.

House was bored. This, in and of itself, was not new, as he was often bored. However, due to the fact he was single-and had been for about a month now-he could not cure said boredom by attempting to convince Cuddy into office sex. This, of course, would have been simple were it _her_ office, as they had done that before, but he figured that with his level of boredom he might have to give himself a challenge by convincing her to have sex with him in _his_ office. With all the glass walls, in the middle of the day.

Alas, unless she was up for some ex-sex, he doubted it would happen. Although suggesting it anyway might have been entertaining, he was rather attached to his job and getting fired would be a bit bothersome. So instead of going through with the challenge, he decided talking to Wilson was probably the safer bet. And most likely a tad more entertaining.

When he walked into Wilson's office, his greeting died on his lips. Instead of the mountains of paperwork that House had long assumed came attached to his desk, Wilson had a basket with balloons tied around the top, white and black, and on the white balloons black cursive said 'happy' and on the black balloons, white cursive said 'birthday.' From the door, House could see three bottles of wine and a teddy bear.

"What in the holy hell is this?" House asked, shutting the door behind him as he forced his mouth to twist upward in a scowl.

"Vampire survival kit," Wilson answered.

House walked across the room and then sat in the chair he had etched his name on (literally, he'd etched it on the seat in capitals so that he could refer to it as _his_ chair all he wanted). He moved the basket to the left so it wasn't directly in the middle and he could therefore see Wilson. Wilson had a heart-shaped box in front of him, open, with truffles inside. "Zombies are the ones we need protecting from, Wilson. All vampires do is sparkle at us."

"That's what they would like you to think."

"So what's up with all the . . ." he gestured at the basket vaguely, looking at the thin box that had clearly been opened beside the teddy bear.

"Surely you're astute enough to figure it out," Wilson remarked, taking another truffle from the heart-shaped box.

House watched him plop it into his mouth and give House a glare that shouldn't have made his stomach flutter. Wilson wore a thin, dark brown tie that had light-blue designs threaded into it. "That's a hideous tie."

"Is it? I rather like it."

"You like hideous ties," House accused.

Wilson shrugged dismissively. "Well, there is no disputing amongst taste. It was a gift, House. So, is there something you wanted to tell me?"

"I'm bored. Let's play hooky. You shouldn't be working today, anyway."

"And why is that?"

"'Cause I'm bored and want to play hooky."

"How selfish of me to not somehow foresee this fact."

House peered into the basket and looked at the bottles of wine. "Red, white, and pink? Wow, someone wants you to get drunk." He pulled out the pink wine and scowled at the elaborate design on the label. "Demi-seche?"

Wilson yanked it out of House's grasp and then put it back in the basket. "They're imported."

"Ooh, looks like someone has a wittle crush."

Wilson sighed and shook his head. "It's just a birthday present."

"Looks more like a declaration of love to me."

Wilson sighed. "Unlike some people, there are those who actually celebrate this annual celebration of birth."

"I forgot," House lied.

"Sure you did," Wilson muttered, then pulled out another truffle. "House, it wouldn't kill you to-" He contemplated the truffle in his fingers, then shook his head and put it back. The tips of his fingers had small chocolate-y smudges. "Never mind."

House shifted in the chair and looked around the office, eyes settling on the basket. He grinned. "Come on, let's skip out and get wasted."

"I'm doing my job."

"Well, a couple of sips won't kill anyone," House said, reaching for a bottle of wine. Wilson grabbed House's hand and forcibly moved it away. House slumped in the chair and sighed.

After a short bout of uncomfortable silence, House reached and grabbed a truffle. Wilson reached across the desk to grab it out of House's hand, but failed. House laughed and dangled it just within his reach to taunt him as Wilson stood, but then he actually leaned over the desk and swiped at the chocolate. This time, he managed to grab House's wrist. He yanked it towards him, and House pulled back, but didn't manage to break out of Wilson's grasp.

Wilson pulled harder, and then wrapped his mouth around the truffle triumphantly. Which meant he'd also sucked in the tips of House's first two fingers and thumb. The heat from his tongue, which was apparently caressing the chocolate and therefore House's fingers, shot straight up his arm and hit him right in the chest. Considering that House was sitting down and Wilson was leaning rather far over his desk, he could've easily just . . . dropped his hand from Wilson's mouth. Then again, Wilson could have relinquished his suddenly-loose grip on House's wrist, too.

There wasn't a moment where they both froze; instead, Wilson kept savouring the chocolate around House's fingers as if they weren't even there . . . or, perhaps, _because_ they were.

Finally House's fingers plopped out of Wilson's mouth and House breathed in, as he had forgotten to breathe for a few seconds. He watched Wilson's adam's apple bob. House then stood up, grabbed Wilson's face, and kissed him. There was no resistance or moment of hesitation-Wilson kissed him back, welcoming his tongue into his mouth.

The sweet aftertaste of chocolate on Wilson's tongue sent sparks up House's spine, and he deepened the kiss in an attempt to steal more of it for himself. The edge of the desk pushed into his pelvis bone uncomfortably, but he moved forward anyway, pulling Wilson's face into his, nipping at his bottom lip and sucking on it, grunting when Wilson made an odd but arousing noise that echoed in his mouth.

Wilson pulled away suddenly. "Desk's jamming into my hip, House," he explained breathily.

"Ditto."

They pulled away, but both remained standing. Wilson looked at the basket, eyes roving over the wine bottles. He picked up the pink bottle of wine and turned it in his hand, smiling slightly deviously. "You said something about skipping off?" he asked, eyes sliding over to meet House's.

House smirked. "Cork screw's under the teddy bear."

Wilson furrowed his eyebrows. "Wait, how'd you . . . ?" House cleared his throat and averted his eyes briefly. "Thanks for the tie, House," he said with a barely repressed grin.

House plucked a truffle out of the box and plopped it in his mouth. "Happy birthday, Wilson."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes: **Thanks to theletterv for some last-minute betaing. The second drabble I literally wrote like an hour ago and he was kind enough to suffer the injustive uv hvn 2 fix mah ypos. (Note: totes did those ones on purpose).

**Twenty Questions**

Their first kiss happened because House has the attention span of a child.

Wilson, as per usual, was doing paperwork. His mind wasn't necessarily on the paperwork at hand-he was busy thinking about the fact he and House were recently single, a terminally ill eight year old, Cuddy's dirty looks for the past three days although her and House had broken up more than a month ago, Sam's voicemail demanding to know where her _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ DVD was although that was Wilson's but he was considering giving it to her since he had been thinking about buying a blu-ray player anyway, and trying to gather the courage to ask House to move back in with him.

It wasn't that House needed supervision anymore. Well, maybe he did, but he'd been living on his own in his apartment and he and Cuddy dating hadn't been one of his brighter ideas, and he'd been rubbing his leg a lot more recently . . . Still, when Sam had broken up with Wilson last week House had been in a good mood. Obviously. Despite that, though, Wilson did worry about him, but he wasn't stupid enough to convince himself it was all for House's benefit-Wilson missed living with him and he knew why; he just worried about House figuring it out if he asked.

He heard the familiar taps against his balcony door and sighed, smiling thinly before looking up at the source of the noise. House stood on the other side of the partition, tossing pebbles at his window. Wilson rolled his eyes and sighed heavily just for show, but he knew he was smiling and that House wouldn't believe his exasperation for one second.

He put his pen and paperwork aside and then stepped outside in the early autumn sun, the chill breeze balancing the heat rather nicely. "I'm bored," House greeted. "Entertain me."

"Sure. Just give a me a moment to put on my clown shoes and a fluffy nose, and I'll get right on that."

House grinned and hopped over the partition with an ease that no crippled man should have. Then again, he'd hopped over it enough times for it to become habit, so it didn't really surprise him. House stood beside Wilson and looked towards the horizon, leaning over and resting his forearms against the wall that separated them from a grisly fall. Wilson stared at his relaxed profile wistfully for a second, then turned towards the sky as well and copied House's posture, so the sides of their arms brushed and then relaxed against one another.

Wilson refused to move his hand in fear that if he called attention to it House would stop touching him.

"Give me an animal," House said.

"Hmm, I would, but I don't seem to have any spare ones on me," he replied. House scoffed and then Wilson smiled. "Aardvark," he stated, raising his eyebrows challengingly with a brief glance at House.

"Koala."

"Arachnid."

"Duck," House proclaimed proudly, smirking at him.

"Kangaroo," Wilson said with only a slight hesitation.

"Orangutan."

"Nightingale."

House scoffed loudly and knocked Wilson with his shoulder. "Of course you'd pick that. Elephant."

"Turtle."

"Emu."

Damn, what animal began with the letter U? "Unicorn," Wilson blurted.

"I win!" House exclaimed gleefully.

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "What? You do not."

"Oh, excuse me, I thought that subject was animals, not mythological creatures that don't exist. Winner chooses next game." Wilson sighed and House looked upward in thought. "I choose . . . Twenty questions. Guess what I'm thinking about. Go."

"Hey, maybe _you_ should guess what I'm thinking for once."

"It's either a dying patient or _Breakfast at Tiffany's."_ Wilson gaped at House in offence, mostly because he was right, and then House smirked before looking towards the horizon again.

Wilson stared at House's profile again and then sighed. "All right, fine. Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

"Yes."

So that could mean anything from a whale to House's ego-and yes, he had been thinking of his ego once. Wilson shifted his weight and hummed in thought for a second. "Does it breathe?"

"Yes."

"Can it fly?"

"No."

"Is it a mythological creature?" Wilson asked with a taunting lilt in his voice.

"Nope." House popped the P and turned to look at Wilson, smirking almost evilly.

"Is it . . . native to North America?"

"Yes."

He had fifteen questions left. He used to be horrible at this game but after many renditions with a bored House he'd gotten quite better. Still, that didn't mean it was an easy game. "Would I . . . have to visit a zoo in order to see it?"

House shook his head and plucked at the end of his sleeve. "No."

"Is it a reptile?"

"No."

"Mammal?"

"Yes."

"Can it be domesticated?"

House chuckled and stared at Wilson, the sun glinting off his blue eyes in a way that made them sparkle. "Yes."

"Would you ever domesticate one?"

House tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, then licked his bottom lip slowly, as if in thought. "Yes," he answered slowly and somewhat hesitantly.

Wilson shook the image of House's pink tongue flicking out against the corner of his mouth and cleared his throat. He had ten questions left. "Have I seen one?"

"Yes."

"Within the past . . . oh, week?"

"Yes."

"In the past twenty-four hours?"

"Yes."

"Does it talk?"

"Yes."

Wilson sighed. "Have you been avoiding it?"

"No, and you have five left."

"Female?"

"Nope."

"Is he on your team?"

"No."

Wilson shook his head and smiled a little. "You went through all this trouble just to say you were thinking about me?" he inquired, then turned his head to stare at House, whose face was inches from his own.

House raised an eyebrow. "Well, would I ever just come right out and say it?"

"No, I guess not," Wilson answered with a smile.

Their arms were pressed together and their hands brushed for a second. It wasn't until House sluggishly blinked that Wilson realized they'd been looking at one another for longer than was necessary and, without really meaning to, he glanced down at House's mouth. House's pink tongue flickered out and moistened his bottom lip and Wilson thought about pushing forward and kissing him. He knew he would never have the courage to do it, but he imagined what it would be like anyway; moving forward a few inches, capturing that bottom lip and sucking it into his own; tasting cherry lollipops and coffee on his tongue.

"Bet I can guess what you're thinking in . . . oh, five questions," House said, which tore Wilson out of his reverie and made him realize he'd been staring quite obviously at House's mouth.

"Hmm, what?" he blurted, forcing his eyes away and onto House's. What House had said made it into his brain and _that_ game was a horrible idea; he'd been thinking of kissing him. "No, that's-that's not a game I-no. Five questions? You couldn't _guess_ in five-"

"Is it bigger than a breadbox?" House interrupted, his hand sliding over Wilson's and grabbing his wrist, preventing him from walking away as he had intended.

Wilson thought about jerking away and heading into his office, but that would only prove that what he'd been thinking about was something he wouldn't want House knowing. "No," he answered when he felt House stroke his vein with his thumb briefly.

House released his hand. "Is it an object?"

"No."

"Animal?"

"House, I think-"

"Is it an animal?" he insisted.

Wilson let out a burst of air. No way would he be able to guess in two more questions. "No."

"Does it involve me?"

Wilson blinked a few times. "Yes. One more."

House tilted his head in one direction, then stared straight on, narrowing his eyes in thought. He bit down on his lip, eyed Wilson's face, then hummed. "If I knew what you were thinking, would I be repulsed?"

Wilson opened his mouth to answer, then realized he had no idea. He cleared his throat, looked out into the horizon, then back at House's face. "I don't know," he said with a shrug.

"That's not an answer."

He opened his mouth, then looked out onto the horizon again with a long sigh. "Yeah, probably," he admitted, mostly to himself.

He felt House hand grab his jaw slightly and turned him so that they were facing. Wilson almost pulled his head away instinctually, but didn't when he saw House's expression. "The correct answer to that was 'no,'" he whispered, then leaned forward and kissed him.

Wilson's first reaction, other than to immediately reciprocate of course, was that House didn't taste of coffee and cherry suckers, like he had suspected. He tasted of mint-cool, refreshing mint, and a bit like toothpaste and lip balm. His lips were smooth and slightly moist-either from the lip balm or his tongue from the multiple times he'd moistened it during their game.

House never wore lip balm, and he wasn't really all that fond of mint.

Wilson pulled away. "You planned this," he accused breathily.

House shrugged and kissed him again.

**Celebration**

Their first kiss happened on National Pancake Day.

"Make me some pancakes," House blurted the moment he walked into Wilson's kitchen.

Wilson, who was washing out a single glass at the sink, jumped a foot in the air and spun around, wind milling his arms as if he were half trying to get into a fighting stance in an artistic kung fu way that would scare off his attackers, and half like he was an epileptic. House internally patted himself on the back for a job well done.

"House-" he began, as if to reprimand him, then he cut off with a sigh and relaxed his posture, shaking his head. "You know, with your inability to knock, one of these days you're going to walk in on something you'd prefer not to see."

House raised an eyebrow as Wilson shook his head, grabbing the dishtowel and rubbing it around his palms. "If you're talking about jacking off, then you're so wrong about me not wanting to see it."

"Very funny," Wilson murmured with an eye-roll. "After the last time, I have absolutely no interest in letting that happen again."

"I only did what every normal guy in that same situation would do."

"You took pictures and posted them on MySpace."

House shrugged. "I'd been planning for weeks." Wilson rolled his eyes and threw the dishtowel back in the sink; it would probably be used later to wash instead of dry. "But back to the reason I decided to visit . . ."

"Yes, why did you bestow upon me the greatest honour known to man?"

"I already told you," House said, stepping in front of Wilson as he tried to walk past. "Make me some pancakes."

Wilson tried to move around House, but he stepped in front of him again. Wilson sighed and rolled his eyes. "You came all the way to my loft at . . ." He checked his watch, then sighed again. ". . . nine at night for some pancakes."

"Cuddy told me to get off my ass and make them myself."

"I take it she was not happy with whatever speech you drunkenly spouted off last night, then?"

House cleared his throat and looked around the kitchen, which seemed to be far more interesting than looking at Wilson at the moment. "No," he finally answered.

Wilson finally managed to walk by House, which snapped him out of his half-recalled fuzzy memories of blathering on to Cuddy before falling asleep on her vagina. All right, not his proudest moment, but hey, if they were going to be in a relationship, she had better get used to it; his life was made up of not-his-best-moments.

House followed Wilson. "This doesn't look like the way to the kitchen."

"Spot on," Wilson called over his shoulder.

"But I want pancaaaakes," House whined exaggeratedly.

Wilson stopped, sighed loudly (and it was too overdone to be real) before turning to face House, lips pinched in an attempt to hide his smirk. "And why is that? You haven't given me any reason why I should stop what I'm doing to cook for you."

"It's National Pancake Day."

Wilson rolled his eyes and folded his arms, shifting his weight onto his other foot. He wore nothing but a dark grey tee and some pyjama bottoms. "Yes, clearly. How could I have forgotten this treasure of a national holiday? Forgive my incompetent memory."

"I'm completely serious."

"Today, March 1st, is seriously Pancake Day?" Wilson asked incredulously, lowering his chin slightly.

"Would I lie to you?" Wilson's eyebrows raised slightly. "Okay, but I'm serious. It's a day devoted to celebrating pancakes. So, make me some. Cuddy won't."

"I am at a loss at how someone can refuse such a noble request," Wilson stated before turning around.

House grabbed his arm and forced Wilson to look at him again. Wilson did nothing but gently pull his arm free, but he didn't move away. "Would it help if I said that Cuddy did make some, and they tasted like crap?"

There was a flicker in Wilson's eyes and the beginnings of a smile, but he visibly quashed it, probably assuming he'd gotten away with it. "Really?" he asked, and House couldn't help but hear the genuineness in the question.

"Yeah, which then led into the discussion of her telling me to make them myself. So chop chop, I'm starving."

Wilson opened his mouth, then shook his head. "Go to IHOP," he suggested, before turning around again and starting towards the couch.

House quickly limped into Wilson's path, impeding his journey, and narrowed his eyes. "They don't make them like you do. They're always . . . starchy."

"IHOP is giving pancakes out free today."

"Just one complimentary short stack. It's not the _same,"_ House complained, before he fully processed Wilson's sentence. "Wait. You knew it was Pancake Day, didn't you?"

"And I know you didn't really ask Cuddy," Wilson rightly guessed before trying to walk past House again, and House deftly stood in the way. "House, it's nine o' clock," Wilson resigned with a sigh. "It's too late to cook pancakes."

"It's never too late to make pancakes," House insisted, meeting Wilson's eyes and making sure they locked.

Wilson opened his mouth to disagree, but then he froze; House literally saw something click into place behind those eyes, and his shoulders lowered; as if they had been tense and he just relaxed them. He bit onto his lip and looked at the floor; there wasn't much space between them. Wilson looked up and met his eyes again, rubbing the back of his neck. "You've had all day."

"Sometimes it takes awhile to figure out what I want."

"I was waiting for you _all day."_

House cleared his throat. "Maybe I was waiting for you."

Wilson dropped the hand from his neck and smiled. "Well, I already bought ingredients. It would be a shame to let them go to waste."

House nodded and took a step closer, flecking nonexistent dust off Wilson's shoulder. "And you do know how I like them."

"Are you sure about this? You can't go back to eating Cuddy's," Wilson informed, focusing on House's chest. He slowly reached forward brushed his sternum with the tips of his fingers, brows furrowing and he dropped his hand, but trails of heat remained through House's shirt.

"I threw Cuddy's away. Hers just weren't up to par with my refined cuisine standards," he said quietly, hand reaching forward and holding the side of Wilson's face, stepping even nearer.

Wilson frowned slightly and tilted his head slightly into House's palm. "I thought you didn't really ask her to cook?"

"Since when have we really been talking about pancakes?"

The grin that spread across Wilson's face was contagious, but House was only graced with its presence for a second before their lips descended and caught each other. Without resistance, they both opened their mouths; tongues swirling and savouring the texture. There was an elusive sweetness to Wilson that House couldn't place; perhaps he'd had some sort of dessert a few minutes before House had burst into the loft without preamble; maybe it was just Wilson.

Warmth encompassed him as Wilson's arms slid around his back; pressed them closer together. House entangled his fingers in Wilson's hair; felt the soft strands dance around his skin while Wilson suckled and nibbled slightly at the tip of House tongue.

The warm, soft pressure of their mouths sliding wetly filled him with a warmth; despite the lightness in his chest and head, he still felt anchored; despite the heat radiating between them, it wasn't an all-consuming fire that burned and left nothing but ashes in its wake. It was the perfect temperature; the perfect feel and texture and taste.

The kiss slowed and lessened to nothing more than a few quick licks and pecks and nibbles before they pulled away. Wilson ducked his head to presumably hide the blush on his cheeks, but House had already seen the pink staining his skin and the grin he tried to quell by worrying his lip between his teeth.

Wilson finally lifted his head to look him in the eyes. House smiled, then held his chin, brushing his moist bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.

"I really was expecting you to show up earlier, House," Wilson muttered, idly drawing circles on his shirtsleeve with his thumb. House didn't know if he was talking metaphorically or literally, although probably both.

"Well, I didn't think you knew March 1st was Pancake Day."

"It . . . really doesn't need to be a holiday, House. You can have pancakes whenever you want."

"I plan to," House stated and Wilson's smile lit up the room; fluttered in his belly; whatever other cliché crap House didn't want to admit to feeling.

Wilson gave House a brief, yet lingering, kiss. "Good."

House blinked. "But in all seriousness, can we actually have pancakes?"

"Okay," Wilson relented, and laughed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Forget Me Not**

Their first kiss House didn't even remember.

When he woke up that morning, his head was not only pounding because of the hangover, but it was also thrumming with memories of blaring techno dance music pulsing around him. He could smell the lingering perfume of dozens of women writhing around beside him, and the lights from his window burned his retinas.

The last thing he recalled before waking up to the far-too-bright sun shining through his windows and the nauseating pull in his stomach was Thirteen shoving another shot into their hands, linking arms with Wilson, and downing the shots simultaneously. After that there was a blur of pulsing, pounding music, hot lesbians grinding as far as the eye could see, more than a few bathroom visits with Wilson at his side and downing a large glass of orange juice when he'd gotten home.

He could taste the remnants of the orange juice slightly, but other than that his mouth felt as though it were stuffed with cotton and the aftertaste of alcohol was familiar and overpowering. He stared at the alarm and recognized the blurry numbers as before noon, which meant it was probably too early for him to be awake.

However, the scent of frying bacon and sausage filled his nostrils and the growling in his stomach intensified. His mind was still a little groggy underneath the headache and his thigh ached and throbbed more than usual, probably due to drunkenly dancing and not having the sense to remind himself, through the haze of vodka, that overtaxing his thigh would be hell in the morning, but he rolled out of bed and stumbled to his bathroom to urinate.

And urinate.

Annnnnd urinate.

He washed his hands twice because he forgot he'd already washed them until he was preparing for a third go, then splashed cold water on his face, looked at his reflection habitually and turned to leave but stopped and turned to his reflection again. There was a small bruise on his jaw, and what appeared to be a hickey on his collarbone, and he grinned. Apparently some of those lesbians were bisexual. Perhaps it had been Thirteen.

He tilted his head one direction and saw bite marks and a small, vague memory flashed across his head-someone's hand up his shirt and the sharp feeling of teeth at his carotid. It should have been painful but he remembered arching into whoever was in front of him, so it mustn't have bothered him too much. He opened his mirror to retrieve four Ibuprofens.

Due to an illogical twist of luck and fate, House and Wilson had found themselves dumped within days of each other. House, as usual, had been the catalyst. He'd gotten into a very loud, and attention-getting, argument with Cuddy outside of his office, which had embarrassed her and resulted in him being dumped three hours later. Wilson, always the love child of a mother hen and a helicopter, came rushing to the rescue and spent three consecutive nights at his place. When Sam came bursting into his apartment on the third day to demand House relinquish her boyfriend (all right, so it hadn't been quite that dramatic-the whole situation had teemed with passive aggressiveness until House put his good foot down and put and end to that nonsense) House had eventually lost his temper with her when Wilson's very persuasive methods of explaining why House was just clearly more important than her (which, of course, had not been his exact words) she'd gotten into an argument with him, and then left, only to call an hour later to inform him she was packing up her stuff and leaving.

The two of them being dumped had left them both in rather sour moods and their maudlin, morose, and hatred for all relationships everywhere had culminated into a large, gloomy cloud on their floor and Wilson, being in a bad mood, had spurred on House's bad mood and they'd gotten into a little spat in the differential diagnosis room, and Thirteen had claimed that they were tipping the balances or some other such bullshit and so she had decided that they needed a good cheering up. Apparently, she'd thought that dragging them to a lesbian club and letting them see hundreds of women dancing and making out was a good idea.

As far as House was concerned, she'd been right.

But one drink led to another and then . . . House couldn't remember much of anything. Well, at least he'd woken up in his bed at the loft (Wilson had let him move back in, obviously) rather than someone else's.

He brushed his teeth because the taste in his mouth was disturbing even him and then he limped his way into the kitchen, the scent of breakfast filling the entire loft. He saw Wilson's back. He was still in his pyjamas pants and thin tee, just as House was, and Wilson's hair was up in tufts still. It was actually a bit endearing, really, when he thought about it, and he allowed himself a moment to glance at Wilson's ass. Okay, so it wasn't as firm as Cuddy's but it wasn't sub par or anything.

"Hey," he greeted as he limped towards the table.

Wilson jumped and faced him, turned a bright red, mumbled something that might have been a greeting, and then turned quickly back to the frying pan and ducked his head.

House narrowed his eyes in thought, but said nothing as he sat at the table, getting a random flash of memory of Wilson's laughter ringing through his ears and warm hands against his torso-up his shirt. Wilson and him had danced . . . together?

"How'd we get home?" House asked through a yawn, watching Wilson serve up two plates of sausage and bacon and probably pancakes. At least, House hoped there were pancakes.

"Uh, Thirteen drove us, remember?" Wilson said as he turned around, holding a plate in each hand.

House took his plate from Wilson, who was clearly not looking at him. House narrowed his eyes again, then stared down at his glorious pancakes. "Don't really remember much of anything." Wilson nodded his head in House's direction and the noise he made was noncommittal; he stared his plate and cleared his throat, head ducked so that House couldn't really see his face. "What's wrong with you?" House asked.

Wilson looked up and at him. "Hmm? Oh, nothing. I'm-fine. Just hung over."

"Did you make out with Thirteen or something? Because she probably doesn't care. Just as long as you don't propose," House muttered, eyeing his stiff posture awkwardly.

"You . . . really don't remember."

"Remember you sucking off one of my fellows' face? I'm sure I repressed that," he muttered with an eye roll. Wilson blinked at him. "You have razor burn," House told him, Wilson blushed, and then House dove into his pancakes.

Wilson was eerily quiet as House practically shovelled in his breakfast, the food helping with his hangover. When he let out a loud burp, Wilson scoffed and shook his head, but he was smiling thinly. House furrowed his brows when he saw a hickey on Wilson's neck.

He tilted his head and watched as Wilson ate slowly, head ducked slightly and posture awkwardly stiff.

Out of nowhere, he remembered Wilson gasping and moaning, and then biting down on his neck while Thirteen watched with a devilish grin on her face.

"Did we . . ." House asked, face bunched up in confusion. Wilson glanced at him but did not meet his eyes. "Did we do something? Like . . . kiss?" he asked.

Wilson blinked. "Um . . . You really don't remember?"

"Just answer the question."

"Well, we . . . Yeah. It was-a kiss." He cleared his throat and looked down at his plate again, and started poking at his pancakes with his fork.

House realized that, with the bite mark and the hickies on both of their throats, obviously it hadn't been a mere quick peck. "What kind of kiss?" he asked.

Wilson tossed his fork down and huffed, folding his arms and looking at the wall to his left, so his head was turned and his hickey was visible. "We were practically fused at the mouth the entire time. And we gave Thirteen a nice show in the backseat of her car. Fine."

House felt suddenly very disappointed. Not that he'd kissed Wilson, but the fact he couldn't remember it. That was something he should remember-making out with his best friend of almost twenty years? That was something that should be at the very forefront of his mind, easily recalled at any time he wanted-and especially since they'd apparently made out for hours. And in the backseat of Thirteen's car, too. Instead he couldn't remember a damn thing, except for a few touches and Wilson's large, dopey grin.

Of all the times he'd gotten drunk and had thought about just grabbing Wilson and kissing him, he'd decided to do it on one of the nights he'd had so much to drink he'd forgotten everything? Wilson remembering was worse, because had he forgotten too then neither of them would have ever remembered and so he wouldn't have been able to hear about what he'd forgotten so he wouldn't have known. Well, unless Thirteen was going to say something and she probably would.

House _had_ to remember Wilson's taste in his mouth. He wanted to have Wilson's gasps and touches and tongue massaging his imprinted on his memory, seeing as it would probably never happen again. "Well, what happened? How did-" House gestured between them.

Wilson shrugged, still looking around the loft as if he'd never seen it before. "I don't know. Thirteen . . . pulled you onto the dance floor and I started dancing with you and then we . . . sorta . . ." He pressed his hands together as if clapping once in slow motion.

House searched his memory; tried to think of Wilson's hand in his shirt, their mouths opened and connected, their tongues twirling and thrusting . . . them sucking on each other's necks . . . Wilson's scent overpowering him; surrounding him as they gasped . . .

Wait. Scent.

He leapt (well, hopped off as best as a cripple could) from his seat and limped towards Wilson's bathroom. Seeing as Wilson might not ever want to get drunk with him again, it might not ever happen again and from the sounds of it, the kiss had been pretty epic so he wanted to remember. He _needed_ to remember.

He pushed into Wilson's bathroom and found the clothes he'd worn to the club the night before in the hamper.

Wilson walked into the bathroom, currently rubbing the bridge of his nose, as House pulled out his clothes. "Look, we were both drunk, if you want to forget it ever happened I'm perfectly okay with . . . What are you doing?" He dropped his hand from his nose and stared at House for the first time that morning; really stared.

House buried his nose in Wilson's shirt and sniffed. "Scent is a memory trigger."

"So, what, you-you _want_ to remember?" Wilson asked, thick brows furrowed in confusion.

House didn't answer; he just closed his eyes and sniffed again. Alcohol, sweat, watermelon, House's cologne . . . He had an image of Wilson clutching onto him and complaining about his scruff although he was nuzzling against his jaw, but it was brief and contained no actual kissing. He smelled it again.

He felt Wilson's warm palm on his wrist. He allowed Wilson to pull his arm down and he opened eyes to see Wilson's were huge with slight bags beneath them and his hair was still messy. "House, do you . . . are you trying to . . . remember making out with me?"

House shifted awkwardly and looked down at the shirt he held in his hand. He nodded slightly and cleared his throat, then lifted the shirt to his nostrils again and turned slightly away from Wilson, nuzzling the shirt with his nose.

Wilson stood in front of him and pulled the shirt free, throwing it in the hamper. House clearly saw that it was beard burn, not razor burn, and that Wilson had more than one hickey on his neck. Wilson looked at House innocently. "Well, I could . . . You know. Kiss you. Again. Just to . . . jog your memory. If you wanted."

House smirked and then shrugged. "Well, nothing else seems to be working."

Wilson held House's chin between his thumb and forefinger, then flicked his bottom lip with his tongue, eyes closing. House swallowed Wilson's surprised moan when he wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled them chest-to-chest, probing Wilson's mouth ardently.

Wilson clung to him, hands clutching at his shirtsleeve, then at the back of his shirt, then at his collar, and then at his hair; his hands couldn't keep still, and he reciprocated with more passion than House had expected but the thrusting tongue was definitely welcome.

Flashes of their frenzied kissing came back to him, but no more than a split second at a time. It had been frenzied and grabby, and House knew why; they'd waited years to do this, and both of them had probably worried it wouldn't happen again.

House pulled away to breathe for a second, then pressed his mouth to Wilson's again, slower but firmly; open-mouthed but not hasty. When he pushed Wilson's back against the sink and sucked on his lower lip to hear Wilson gasp, he knew that this would not be their last kiss.

He might have forgotten their first, but he would always remember their second.

**Convincing Argument**

Their first kiss was due to nomenclature confusion.

Clinic was never House's favourite way to spend an afternoon, as diagnosing morons with the flu was a bit beneath his usual standard. It was a waste of his not inconsiderable talent and brainpower. Still, despite its loathsomeness, sometimes he had to do it.

Apparently, Cuddy had decided today was one of those days.

Ever since they broke up, it was 'clinic this' and 'clinic that' and 'I'm a vengeful ex going through menopause trying to annoy you with herpes and colds.' Really, it was just getting pathetic. House knew he was clearly the greatest loss to a woman's heart anyone could fathom, but that was no excuse to make him actually do his job four months after they broke up.

It was a bit fun, actually, going back to their old routine. She badgered him about his job and he didn't comply. It was a lot better than her badgering him about his job even though he always did it. Although the sex was a plus.

Oh well. That was what hookers were for.

However, he had more important matters to deal with at the moment-such as, avoiding the rampage of high-heeled Cuddy and clinic duty. However, that proved difficult as he, by an unfortunate turn of events, had somehow turned around the right corner just at the wrong time on his way to Coma Guys' room and saw Cuddy, so he'd had to double back and start going somewhere else.

He heard clacking from around the corner and froze. He couldn't move-if she turned down the corner, he would be seen. He heard the clacking stop.

"Oh, Brad," came a feminine voice, but not Cuddy's, so the heels hadn't even belonged to her. Thank God. He was pressed against the wall, and the voices seemed to be just around the corner, so he couldn't see who they were. "I was just on my way to see you."

"Really? Why?" House recognized that voice. It belonged to a snotty asshole nurse in oncology who apparently didn't like him. Which wasn't all that big of a shock.

"Oh, nothing that important-I just heard Doctor Wilson was quitting."

House heart stopped. That couldn't be true-he'd know about it otherwise. He inched closer to the edge of the corner and held his breath.

"Yeah, he is. Honestly, I'm surprised it took him this long. But I heard it from the man himself."

That was like a punch straight to the gut. Dizziness shot right into House's head. Not again. He couldn't leave _again._ Not when they were so close . . . House had moved back into the loft, and they were getting closer and closer to breaking their boundaries. Any day now, he was sure that they would . . . But maybe that was _why . . ._

"Well that's too bad. Did he say why?"

"Why do you think? House, naturally. He got a better offer at Hopkins, anyway."

The woman said something, but House heard nothing but indistinct murmuring as he had limped down the hall in the other direction as fast as he could. The sounds of his cane ticking echoed along with his footsteps-no. No way was he letting Wilson get away from him this time-not after Wilson had fallen asleep on his shoulder the night before. Not when Wilson hadn't balked when House had wiped mayonnaise off his cheek and made an inappropriate comment about blow jobs.

Every time they got closer, Wilson would run for the hills and they'd break apart for awhile, but this time it had actually seemed he wouldn't. Well, House wouldn't let him. Not again.

He burst into Wilson's office, the door banging loudly against the wall, and Wilson, who was standing in front of his desk collecting some files, jumped about a foot in the air and flung those papers everywhere. He even made a hilarious noise House would've commented on a few minutes earlier when his mind wasn't preoccupied with Wilson heading for the hills.

"Don't do it," he blurted.

"House, wha-"

That was about as far as Wilson got before House crashed into him, hands clutching at the lapels of his stupid lab coat and mouth fused to his. Unlike all the movie kisses he'd seen with a similar premise, it wasn't smooth or easy. In fact, House's mouth wasn't even on Wilson's, so much as on the side of it, lips rather embarrassingly stuck to his cheek. Until he felt warm hands on his stubbled cheek moving his head to the side, and attacking his lips.

House pushed forward, tongue thrusting into Wilson's mouth, and Wilson stumbled, hitting his desk with enough force for it to scuff along the floor and slide out from behind him slightly. Wilson let out an undignified 'mmph' against House's mouth while he wind milled his arms at the loss of balance, then grabbed House's shoulders tightly and renewed the kiss with even more vigour.

House left no area of Wilson's mouth unexplored; he tasted every bit of his tongue and roof of his mouth; his hands flew all over his back and into his hair, losing himself with each grunt Wilson made and arching his back every time Wilson moved his hands somewhere else, which happened quite often and quickly.

For each grunt and mmph Wilson made, House echoed him, their heads twisting and mouths locking and sliding open and separating at a pace that would've been dizzying if House wasn't so enthusiastic and determined to make this kiss prove to Wilson he had to stay.

Considering that they were practically undulating against each other and repeatedly nipping at each other's bottom lips, he assumed he was doing a good job.

In fact, when Wilson grabbed House's waist and practically thrust their groins together, he realized he might be doing too good a job . . . with Wilson's door wide open.

House wrenched their mouths apart but didn't take a step back, hands sliding in Wilson's hair as they pressed their foreheads together. Wilson held House's face, a hand on either cheek. They both breathed heavily, sucking in each other's exhales, and finally House opened his eyes. "I'm sorry," he managed, which wasn't easy as he hated apologizing.

"Mmm, don't be. God, that was . . ." Wilson leaned forward and planted a wet kiss on his mouth. Wilson waited a second, then kissed him again, reacquainting House with his tongue for several seconds before pulling away to breathe.

"I meant for whatever it is I did to piss you off. Are we good now?" House asked, pulling his head away so he wouldn't be tempted to ravish Wilson against his desk again.

Wilson, whose hair was ruffled and mouth was swollen and glistening from their kissing, stared at House, eyes travelling over his face, as if he'd never seen him before. Wilson opted to run the backside of his fingers across House's jaw. "I'm not mad at you," he said.

"Then why are you quitting?" House rasped, turning his head enough to kiss the tips of Wilson's fingers.

"I'm not." Wilson furrowed his brows.

"I heard that asshole Brad tell some girl that you were quitting because of me."

"House," Wilson began, smiling slightly. "There are _two_ Doctor Wilsons in the hospital."

Oh, right.

"I . . . forgot," House admitted.

"He's probably upset because of-"

"The monkey, yeah, yeah," House muttered and he waved his hand impatiently. "So, you're telling me I burst in here for no reason?"

Wilson shrugged, then smoothed his hands across House's shirt, eyes focusing on his collarbone. "Well . . . Maybe not _no_ reason." House really couldn't help but smirk, despite all efforts not to. Wilson, without tilting his head up, slid his dark eyes up to meet House's, then slid his hands upward and around House's neck, wrists criss-crossed against the top of his spine. "You . . . _could_ pretend to . . . _convince_ me to stay a little more, you know."

House chuckled deeply. "I'll lock the door."


	4. Chapter 4

****

Now in 3D

Their first kiss was voyeuristic.

One of the things that one needed to understand about House was that he obsessed. There wasn't one thing in particular he obsessed over so much as everything. A case, a book, a game, a song, people, a TV show . . . Whatever. Wilson understood this and so whenever House insisted that the two of them sit down and watch an entire television series, he joined him. Whenever he needed Wilson to bounce ideas off of for his new case, he did what he could. He listened to the same song over and over and discussed it into the ground with House, and he didn't mind it one bit. It was just one of the many things that made House who he was, and Wilson, believe it or not, loved him for it.

So when he walked into House's office and heard the familiar catchy music coming from the computer, he didn't roll his eyes, sigh, or even put his hands on his hips, despite the fact that House really ought to be in clinic. Ever since they broke up, Cuddy had been giving him more hours than Wilson thought necessary, but he didn't want to get involved. Then again, she also started forgetting to remind him-she'd taken to avoiding House as much as possible. It was difficult to determine when she felt he'd crossed a line of laziness and needed to be forced to work.

"Still playing that game, House?" Wilson asked, walking over so that he could stand beside House and watch the events unfold on screen.

"He totally just said 'hippo herpes,'" House chuckled, pointing at a little computer-animated version of Chase, who was wandering around in a dress.

"It's Simlish. It doesn't sound like anything. And how'd you get that dress, anyway?"

"I downloaded a patch for it. And anyway, British, Simlish-it's the same thing."

"I don't see how that's relevant, as Chase is Australian. House . . . What the hell is he doing?"

"Implying Foreman's mother is a llama."

"Why does your entire team live together?"

"Threesomes. I just _know_ there's a way to get Chase and Foreman in bed with Thirteen." He clicked on Foreman, and made him 'break up' with Chase. "Well, not anymore, there isn't," he added darkly, then gave off a really evil sounding chuckle.

Wilson rolled his eyes and then leaned down, placing one hand on the desk in front of him, his shoulder brushing right up against House's. He could have moved it, but he didn't. Neither did House, for that matter. "How are we doing?"

"Oh, damn. I threw a party, but I had to save in the middle of it and exit out. Hold on, let's see how it's going."

He saved in the middle of Foreman and Chase arguing over something, and then switched the household. As House did this, Wilson turned to stare at House's profile. House had bought The Sims 3 almost a year ago and been obsessed with it when they'd lived together; eventually, though, he'd burned out, but like always, he came back to it. He'd only been playing for the past two weeks, but it was somehow comforting; walking in and hearing the music Wilson associated with the two of them eating Chinese takeout and joking about Nora.

He remembered that, despite the fact the house that held all of his team (a recently added Masters in the mix) was complete chaos, the nigh-on replica of the loft in which they lived, and House and Wilson inside of it, was completely normal. He'd spent three hours on his own character, and four on Wilson. He said the extra hour had been because Wilson's nose was apparently 'difficult to capture' but when Wilson looked at their Sim characters, he had to admit, all the extra work he'd put into it was definitely worth it. He'd been fascinated to watch Sim-House play the guitar and Sim-Wilson just stand there and watch, or he'd laugh when Sim-Wilson would be attempting to wash the dishes and Sim-House would just stand there and lick his clean.

He turned back to the screen to see a horde of people snacking on pizza and dancing. Somehow, Chase and Foreman were at their party, making out in the corner, despite the fact he'd seen them break up not five minutes ago. House laughed, then moved around the loft until he found the two of them, dancing slightly away from the group. Wilson laughed at the way they were dancing-they were listening to classical music, and they seemed to be doing some sort of rendition of the Twist.

"You should've been here earlier. House tried to go into your bathroom to bathe but you got mad and then House called your mother a llama. It was hilarious."

"What is with this game's obsession with llamas?"

"What's with your obsession with ties?" House reiterated, then started moving through the party. Several people left at once, claiming they had somewhere else to be.

House found Cuddy, who was wearing a clown suit for some reason. "Uh, what the hell?" Wilson asked, pointing at her.

"She lost my Rolling Stones shirt," House explained, then watched as she started chatting with Thirteen, who looked exactly like herself, but she was wearing a schoolgirl outfit.

Thirteen and Cuddy started openly flirting with each other, and both House and Wilson leaned closer to the screen. Babbling gibberish came from the speakers and thought bubbles popped over their heads while they stepped closer to each other, touching each other's shoulders. House zoomed right in on them as they embraced, hugging in a way friends wouldn't normally hug.

"Are you doing this?"

"No, I can't control other Sims during parties. Damn."

They watched as the hug finally ended, and then as Thirteen started giving Cuddy a backrub, and House cleared his throat, rotating his shoulders a bit, which only reminded Wilson that their arms were still touching, spreading warmth throughout his body. After the backrub, and he was sure House gave an insistent push against Wilson, pressing their shoulders together tighter, Thirteen and Cuddy faced each other. They leaned in, as did House and Wilson, and Cuddy moved aside to whisper something in Thirteen's ear.

Both House and Wilson both let out moans of displeasure.

A few notices popped up on the screen, saying that several others had to leave, and then Thirteen and Cuddy held hands, swinging them back and forth.

"Damn teases," House grumbled.

Wilson nodded in agreement, and then two more notices popped up, saying Thirteen and Cuddy were both leaving. "That's unfortunate," Wilson murmured.

"Well, that's everybody," House murmured, and Wilson realized they'd been spending the last several minutes-more than he would ever admit to-waiting for two of their colleagues to kiss in a video game.

He went to find Sim-House and Sim-Wilson sitting on the couch, playing video games. Wilson snorted but couldn't help the grin that spread across his features. They were both wearing pyjamas-white tees with matching blue bottoms-and Sim-Wilson was clearly winning, as Sim-House was stamping his feet and Sim-Wilson was laughing, totally engrossed in the game.

"I thought you had to tell them what to do?" Wilson asked.

"It's set to high free will," House explained, shrugging, causing friction against his shoulder.

Wilson didn't turn back to the screen, and instead looked at House's profile. He wondered if House could tell through his peripherals, but figured he must not be able to, otherwise he would've said something by now. House shifted in the chair and that broke Wilson's concentration, so that he looked back to the screen.

Sim-House and Sim-Wilson put away the paddles (well, they magically disappeared, more like) and then looked at each other. "I think you should go make dinner," House stated randomly, but before he could click on anything, something happened.

Sim-House and Sim-Wilson moved closer together and started making out. "Wh-what are they doing?" Wilson blurted when they turned their heads, kissing each other repeatedly.

"Looks like they're kissing. Makes sense. The other day I caught them cuddling on the couch," House stated casually.

"Is this the first time they've kissed?"

"Far as I know," House said with a very nonchalant shrug, then moved closer, zooming right up against their faces. The graphics were stunning, they were practically replicas, and they were _kissing each other._ Then they just kept it up, tilting their heads and moving in for more.

It was actually incredibly intriguing, and . . . well, _hot._

Of course Wilson had thought about it, but watching it was-okay, it was weird, but in a good way.

He tilted his head and watched with concentration; leaning closer at the same time House was. "Well, they certainly seem to be enjoying themselves," he admitted casually, his voice rough.

"Yeah," House agreed quietly, in a voice just as raspy as his.

Wilson cleared his throat and shifted his weight onto his other foot, which made his back pop slightly. He heard the classical music play on, and continued watching, finding it rather hard to breathe, as the real House was literally right beside him.

He turned his head to look at House to find him staring at him already. Wilson blanched and looked back at the screen immediately. He swallowed, trying to ignore the fact his throat had closed up, and then looked at House again, who was still staring.

House grabbed Wilson's tie and pulled his face to meet his-not quickly, but smoothly. Wilson closed his eyes and parted his lips willingly, his stomach spinning and shooting sparks through his body when their tongues met. The floor tilted beneath him, and he realized belatedly that House was manoeuvring him into his lap. He avoided his right leg, obviously, and then deepened the kiss, tilting his head and plundering House's mouth.

House's hands slipped into Wilson's hair and tugged slightly, which felt irrationally good and Wilson whimpered before wrapping his arms around the back of his neck, stubble scraping at his face while they breathed through their noses almost in unison, the sounds of their kissing louder even than the game.

He felt teeth scraping his tongue; moans pushing into his mouth; House's tee sliding underneath his hands, smoothing up and down his chest.

Wilson pulled away because he needed to breathe, and stared into House's open face, pupils wide and mouth glistening and swollen with kisses. Wilson smiled at him and pressed a quick, but soft kiss to House's mouth.

"Wilson?" House whispered, smiling softly, eyes searching his face as if he'd never seen him before.

Wilson pressed their foreheads together and closed his eyes. "Hmm?"

"Your mama's a llama."

**Going Down**

Their first kiss was spurred on by absence.

Ever since House had started dating Cuddy, he would admit that his time with Wilson had suffered; not greatly, of course, but noticeably. Plus, well, with Sam leaving him, Wilson didn't have much else to distract himself with, and House had noticed that Wilson had been a little off lately; down, depressed, irritable . . . staring at House dazedly at random intervals, which was weird because it wasn't as if he seemed to be looking at anything at all-just staring at him. Still, House knew what it was like to be the single friends, watching Wilson drift further away into the arms of some woman, so he was determined not to make that same mistake.

Except, well.

He had.

It wasn't as if he'd _meant_ to, but Cuddy kept him busy. Despite the fact she'd insisted it wouldn't interfere with their jobs, she had him working twice as much. She said that if she didn't, it would look as though she were giving him carte blanche and a free pass simply because they were dating, even though that was exactly how he'd always worked. With that added onto the sex, and the somehow increasing hours spent watching Rachel, House had a lot more on his plate than he'd wanted. Which, really, it shouldn't have felt so much like one big obligation, but Cuddy treated their personal life the same way she treated their work life, which House really didn't think was a good idea.

Somehow he'd forgotten that he and Wilson had planned to see some movie at the theatre. In his defence, the tickets were bought a week in advance, and House had gotten behind on his days; he thought yesterday was Wednesday when it had actually been Thursday, the night of the movie. By the time House had remembered, it was two hours too late. He'd called Wilson, who'd said he understood and was okay with it, but the fact Hose had found the unused tickets in Wilson's trash during a customary ransack through Wilson's office whenever he was acting strangely confirmed that he was probably bitter about it, seeing as he'd told House he'd gone with someone from radiology. Which was clearly a lie.

House sat in Wilson chair, running his thumb over the crumpled tickets. When used, they were torn in half. Both were still complete. Nothing else had seemed out of the ordinary, despite Wilson's . . . strange behaviour. He'd get oddly twitchy when they spoke sometimes, or avoid House when he normally wouldn't. His hair wasn't nearly as perfectly coifed, and he was starting to get slight, almost unnoticeable, bags under his eyes. Oh, most would attribute it to his workload, but House knew better. Stress from work looked different on Wilson.

The door opened and Wilson stared at House, then sighed, rolling his eyes. "Is it asinine of me to ask if you put everything back in its proper place?"

"Why didn't you go?" House asked, ignoring the question. He reconsidered. "And yes, it is."

"I did go. I went with a nurse from radiology. I told you this last night."

House stood up and limped towards Wilson, who was busy taking off his lab coat and hanging it up on the coat stand. House stood directly behind him, and when Wilson turned around he jumped the tiniest bit. He opened his mouth to say something, probably tell House off for sneaking up on him, but House spoke over him. "No you didn't."

"Yes, I-" He shut up when House held the tickets in front of Wilson nose, between his first two fingers. Wilson went cross-eyed for a split second as he stared at them, and his expression faltered from nonchalance to something akin to soul-crushing despondency. Or something else equally poetic and depressing. After a brief throat clearing, Wilson rolled his eyes and took the tickets from his fingers, stuffing them in his pants pocket. "Fine, I didn't go. I just . . . I knew that if I told you I'd changed my mind, you'd think I was being an emotional sap, so I lied. We lie to each other all the time, House. It's nothing."

He brushed past House, who just turned, using his cane as the pivot point, and said; "I always think you're a sap," he stated to Wilson back, who just stopped his trek to his desk. "So, why'd you really lie? To spare me the lecture?"

Wilson let out a loud sigh, then turn to face House again. "House, there's nothing to it. I just didn't go."

"I wasn't about the movie. You wanted to be with me, and I-" He cut himself off, because he wasn't about to admit that he'd ditched him. Not like Wilson had ditched him when he'd been dating his girlfriends, or married to his insipid wives. Every time Wilson had forgotten, or chose the woman over him (which had happened, although not as much as he'd chosen House, admittedly) House had resented Wilson for it. He'd been filled with all sorts of pathetic, poetic bouts of utter sadness and disgust and hate. And he'd just put Wilson through that.

"Yeah," Wilson admitted quietly. "I wanted to spend time with you. But . . . It's fine, House. You had things you needed to do. I understand."

"If it was fine, you wouldn't have lied."

Wilson pinched his lisp together tightly and squeezed his eyes closed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if trying to fight off a headache, the finally looked at House again. "House, it's nothing. I just didn't want you to-"

"You didn't throw them away at the theatre," House interrupted. They were supposed to meet there, and Wilson had been holding onto the tickets. He must've waited there for him, getting excited every time someone walked by, or a car pulled up, only to be let down, time and time again. House wondered how long he'd sat outside the theatre after the movie had started, just in case he was late. "You threw them away this morning. You . . . kept them with you."

"What do you want me say?" he asked, defeated.

"The truth."

"There is no truth! You didn't show up, I decided not to go, so I went home!" he snapped, throwing his hands in the air.

"That isn't the truth and you know it. Just admit it, Wilson. Admit that you're pissed!"

"I'm not!"

"Please you're not infallible," House growled, getting right in his face. "Even the great Saint Jimmy gets pissed. How long did you wait outside he there, Wilson? How long?"

"The whole damn movie!" Wilson shouted suddenly, his baritone almost tangible; almost bouncing off his skin. "I reminded you. I _reminded you!_ Four times! But you just had to-" He cut himself off, smiling thinly and humourless, before jamming his hands onto his hips. And grimacing at the floor. "What were you doing, House? Sex? I hope it was worth it."

"Oh, don't get all martyr on me, Wilson. Do you know how many times you ditched me?"

"And _that-"_ Wilson pointed at him. _"That_ is why I didn't want to say anything. You think I don't get it, House? Of course I get it! But no, you had to just _go_ through my things, _again,_ and-and what? What were you looking for?"

"Anything! You've been acting like a pod person on steroids! Twitchy, secretive-"

"Oh, I have not!" Wilson interjected indignantly, hands on his hips again.

"-skipping out on lunches, suddenly busy when I talk to you about Cuddy-"

"I have been _nothing_ but supportive of the two of you!"

"Oh yeah? That so? When was the last time you talked to her, huh?"

Wilson let out a scoff. "We've tal-"

"Not more than five minutes at a time you haven't. Just tell me what's going on. Some random slut hopping on the Wilson Express again? Didn't take you that long after Sam, did it?"

"I haven't been se-"

"You ignore my calls, Cuddy tells me she can't get you alone longer than two minutes, you've got a _stick_ the size of Arizona shoved up your ass-"

"There isn't anyt-"

"You're always staring at me, and now this? You think I'm a moron? What the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

"Nothing's wro-"

"Admit it!"

"House, there's nothing to-"

"ADMIT IT!"

"Fine! I'm in love with you! Happy?" Wilson yelled, inches from House's nose; spittle flying at his eyes.

The world screeched to a halt, then punched House squarely in the chest.

Wilson's left hand smacked over his own mouth and his dark eyes widened so much House feared he might cause retinal damage.

"You . . . You love . . . What?"

Wilson removed his shaking hand away from his mouth just an inch, eyes frozen somewhere near the vicinity of House's collarbone. "I . . . I didn't mean to . . ."

"You're in love with me?" House spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.

Wilson blinked, then charged past him, shoulder ramming into his on the way. House turned, a little confused, to see Wilson slip out of his office door, and then he started after him. "Wilson!" he called, cane tapping to a beat alongside his feet.

Wilson made a break for the elevator, which had just dinged open and three people left.

He knew the three nurses were staring at him in confusion because of the fact he was charging after Wilson, but he didn't care. Wilson's eyes were glued on House's in fear as he pounded a button.

The doors clipped the back of House heel as he practically thrust into the elevator, right into Wilson, mouths clanging with enough force their teeth clipped together, and the elevator door shut with a ding.

He pushed Wilson against he back wall forcefully, the attacked his mouth angrily. Wilson responded just as forcefully; too much teeth and tongue; the taste of copper; the feel of Wilson nails scratching down his back, leaving hot trails of almost-pain in their wake, even through the shirt. He tugged at Wilson's hair; shoved his body against his repeatedly, as if trying to push him through the wall.

He whipped his head away from Wilson, gasping heavily, then breathed; "You bastard. You never-why didn't you _say_ anything?"

Wilson didn't answer; he grabbed House's jaw and forced their mouths together again, wet and coppery and fingers digging into House's side violently. His repeated grunts and gasps in his mouth goaded him to nip harder; kiss rougher.

He heard the door ping open and House detached his mouth wetly from Wilson's, then looked over his shoulder to see a doctor, a nurse, and a random person staring at them, open mouthed. "Take the stairs," House ordered, then stepped away from Wilson so he could prod the 'door close' button with his cane.

He stared back at Wilson; ruffled, breathing heavily, red-faced, and completely debauched. "Ever done it on the rooftop?" House asked with a smirk. Wilson licked his bottom lip and then shook his head. "You wanna?"

"Wait, what about Cuddy?"

House hit the button to the top floor with a smirk. "Cuddy who?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Second Nature**

Their first kiss happened somewhat routinely.

When people get involved in relationships, romantic or otherwise, they do fall into certain roles. It's not something that can be helped, but it happens. One always pays and the other always decides what to do; one takes out the garbage, the other does the dishes, to cite a few examples. It wasn't always that clear cut and obvious, but it was true.

House knew this as much as anyone else did as he'd experienced it several times before and he knew it often took time to get used to . . . Well, theoretically. When he was dating Stacy, it had happened naturally; progressed into their routines and habits without much of a second thought. Whether it was the chores they did, or the dates they chose, or what they watched together on television, everything just seemed to fit cohesively, besides the normal getting-used-to-living-with-someone-new part, which always took some effort. And as for his friendship with Wilson, it was the same way; it just happened, slowly, but naturally. In fact, were he to be honest, with Wilson, it was even more natural and steadily progressive than it had been with Stacy; even moving in together, although they'd had a few rough patches, had fit seamlessly. Then again, they'd known each other for years before moving in together . . . as short a time as that had been.

So why was it that being with Cuddy hadn't really worked that way? Was it simply because he was looking back on the relationships he had with Stacy and Wilson, unable to recall the awkwardness and unnaturalness of falling into their roles? Somehow, House didn't think so.

House had always been honest, so he couldn't lie to himself about why, as much as he wanted and tried to. It was because Cuddy was forcing the habits; forcing the roles. Expect him to show up at her convenience; not their natural convenience. Expect him to take out the trash, when he naturally wanted to . . .well, he'd never been a chore type of person, but he supposed making beds hadn't ever bothered him, or putting away clothes. She wanted him to give when his natural response was to take. In fact, it all seemed to be about fitting to _her_ life; not working on _their_ life. She didn't sacrifice anything on his behalf; didn't do anything for him.

Perhaps this was how Wilson had felt all those years.

There was one thing that had somehow become a routine for him and Cuddy, though. It wasn't anything important, he supposed, but in a way, it seemed to feel somehow . . . symbolic for them. He didn't want to interpret why, because he knew where it would lead him.

However it had started didn't matter, but now, all Cuddy had to do was rub the back of her neck, and she sometimes even went as far to just point at her shoulder and say his name, and he went over and began to massage her. It wasn't even about sexual gratification; it never had been. She wanted her shoulders and neck rubbed, and he did it. He never started it; she demanded it, whether passively or somewhat more obviously and aggressively, and he did it.

He could feel that her muscles weren't any more or less tense than what was expected; she didn't give hisses of almost-pain when he dug into her muscles, nor did she give out little sighs or relief or arousal. It wasn't about fixing anything; it wasn't about relaxation. It was about her, needing to know that when she told him to do something, he would. Proof of his respect; proof of that fact she controlled him.

Wilson had rubbed House's leg before, on more than one occasion. After the infarction, it was more common, but it wasn't ever House who asked. After awhile it had died down, but even when they'd lived in the loft together, it had happened a handful of times; but that was to achieve an actual end. House's leg _hurt_ and Wilson knew. There wasn't ever a simple gesture House would do asking for it; Wilson would never inquire if he wanted it. It would just happen; elegantly, without thought. One second, House would be rubbing his thigh, and the next, he would be lying on the couch, leg propped on Wilson's lap, while he watched TV and rubbed the leg until the pain numbed and House pulled away. Wilson gave it willingly without House asking.

This massaging thing with Cuddy wasn't about need, or pain, or anything other than a test; everything with Cuddy was. One night he rubbed his leg, as it had been bothering him more than it usually did for a few days, and it hit him without even knowing why, that if Wilson were there, he would have inquired; perhaps even ended up rubbing it for a few minutes. He hadn't even realized he missed it until then.

And instead of Cuddy rubbing his leg, she sighed and, like she always did if House mentioned his leg, acted annoyed, as if it were an inconvenience for her to know he was in pain.

It wasn't his fault he'd been obsessing over it all day. She'd caught him rubbing his leg with a grimace and, although he tried not to take pills in front of her, she'd seen him swallow some Ibuprofen. Instead of sympathy, or even a forced nonchalance, she scowled and left the bathroom, only to point at her neck while she settled down in front of the couch, and a flare of irritation reared up in his chest while he sat behind her, one leg on either side of her, and worked at her neck. There had been no tense muscles beneath his palm; just skin.

All he'd been able to think about was every time she touched her neck, he ran to her. Any time she pointed at it, he was there. It wasn't about giving, or receiving. It wasn't about him deciding to show affection, or even her needing it; it was just about her knowing she had him under her grasp. Regardless of whether she did it on purpose, it didn't matter. She'd trained him, like some wild horse. There was a reason they called taming mares "breaking."

Although House wasn't idiotic enough to pretend his relationship with Wilson hadn't suffered, he was still able to tell when Wilson was bothered. He knew Wilson was stressed; probably on the brim of blowing up, from the looks of it. He was shutting himself in his office for longer periods of time; rubbing his face and neck and shoulders several times throughout each day; pinching the bridge of his nose and then staring skyward when he thought no one was looking. He looked like he needed a vacation, and it wasn't until he went into Cuddy's office to have lunch and found himself, yet again, rubbing her shoulders while she worked on paperwork that he needed one, too.

He sought solace on the balcony, trying to erase the victorious smile he'd seen on Cuddy's reflection off a framed photo of her, her sister, and her mother she kept on her desk; one that hadn't been there a few weeks prior. She still didn't have one of House. That smile plagued him; he stared at it, ghosting over her mother's smile, and felt his heart sink. He'd seen that smile on numerous occasions since they'd started going out. It had never happened after something boded well for him; just her.

He glanced over into Wilson's office before he slid over the partition. Wilson was holding his face in his palm, as if it were a blindfold. When he actually climbed over it, he noticed that Wilson was now rubbing his face with both palms.

When House stepped into his office, Wilson jumped and looked at him. He began to correct his posture and smiled, but then he just seemed to deflate; give up. "Hey," he greeted, unenthusiastically, and House frowned.

"Who pissed in your coffee?" House asked. He wanted to get his mind off of Cuddy's smile; off of how he had so easily become her personal, yet detached, masseur. However, judging by Wilson's disposition, he doubted it would happen.

Sighing, Wilson rubbed his temples. "I just haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately."

"I can tell," House stated, limping closer to the desk.

Wilson did a half-nod and a shrug. "Figures," he muttered, then picked up a pen. He clicked it a few times before scribbling his signature on something. "Don't know how, but I got behind on all my financial paperwork; Cuddy wanted these yesterday and I forgot. She wasn't . . . never mind."

House shifted on the cushion. Before he started dating her, the two of them would complain about her and have a good laugh; now, even when House was bitching about her, Wilson remained perfectly polite; refusing to say anything either way; refusing to complain, but not sticking up for her, either. It was really starting to piss him off.

Wilson cleared his throat, clicked his pen a few more times, then put it down on his desk. "Well, I ought to bring these down," he stated, although it didn't sound as if he were speaking to anyone, and stood up, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly, and then rubbed the back of his neck with a somewhat pained expression on his face.

Like Pavlov's dog hearing a bell, House reacted. He limped over to Wilson's side of the desk and placed his hands on his shoulders without thinking. It wasn't until he'd dug his thumbs into Wilson and he heard the folders Wilson must have gathered in his hands hit the desktop that he realized what he had done.

They both froze and Wilson tensed beneath his hands; House held his breath, but when he noticed Wilson wasn't pulling away, he squeezed. They both exhaled at the same time, and when House pushed his fingers into the knotted, tight shoulder muscles, Wilson's head tipped back slightly with a sigh, and House's lower abdomen stirred.

He stepped closer and kneaded Wilson's neck and stared at his relaxed profile; eyes shuttered closed, mouth partially open and breath more audible than it really should have been. Feeling Wilson's back move with breath and watching his lined expression melt into relaxation was different than Cuddy's detachedness; made House's lungs tighten and heart pound; filled his stomach with a fluttering sensation he refused to compare to butterflies.

He pushed harder; dug deeper. Wilson's breaths became slower, but louder, and House couldn't deny that the stirring had moved lower. Wilson's cheeks turned pink; his tongue flicked out to moisten his bottom lip.

House cleared his throat and then pressed his thumbs inward; Wilson arched his back slightly, but enough for his back to pop quietly, although in the silence of his office it was amplified. The grunt Wilson made House recognized; the same noise he made when House would listen to him masturbate on the couch when he spent the night; the same noise he could hear when Sam and Wilson had sex, and thought House was asleep.

House mirrored the noise, then slid his hands down Wilson's back lightly, who just arched his spine again, and then House settled his palms on Wilson's waist. He stepped closer; chest-to-back, and House's name slipped past Wilson's lips breathily.

House's breath hitched.

For a long second, he focused on the sounds of them breathing; both louder and shakier than necessary and hitching occasionally. Wilson dropped his head on House's right shoulder, exposing his neck, but his eyes were still closed. House could see the pulse beating under his skin; feel his own thrumming through his body.

House pressed a tiny kiss to his jugular; felt it beat beneath his lips. His eyes slid closed when he kissed it again, heart slamming into his sternum when Wilson made that noise again.

Suddenly, Wilson was turning; House stepped back to allow him room, and then swallowed Wilson's insistent tongue. No hesitation; no reluctance, just wet, open-mouthed, and wheedling noises out of his chest that House hadn't uttered in years. Wilson's fingers slid behind House's neck; pulled him in, closer; kissed him deeper.

House clutched onto the bottom of Wilson's shirt and felt the groan Wilson made echo in his chest; tongues slipped past each other and when he pulled away for air, Wilson jerked him forward again, clashing their teeth and wet mouths together. Despite the initial crash, their kiss wasn't frenzied, despite being intense.

They moved naturally; smoothly. Although they'd never kissed before, it still felt as thought they had; it felt normal; natural. As if this could be the hundredth time they kissed, rather than just the first. The tiny moans and the moments they pulled just centimetres away to suck in a breath, although a new experience, filled House with familiarity.

When he finally did manage to pull away to breathe, Wilson still wouldn't let him go; kept his arms wrapped tightly around him, wrapping him in a tight hug; burying his face in House's shoulder. Wilson's breath hitched as he breathed, and the wetness House felt on his neck had nothing to do with kissing.

House's hands, still resting on Wilson's waist, slid around his back and brought Wilson into an embrace. He kissed Wilson's temple and pulled away to look him in the face; as he expected, there were tears glistening on his cheeks.

House swallowed; he knew Cuddy was somewhere in the hospital and he was going to have to deal with that; end their relationship. He knew it wouldn't be pretty. But right now, that wasn't his concern.

He swallowed the dry lump in his throat. "So you haven't been sleeping well lately?"

Wilson shook his head and sniffed. "I've had some bad nights."

House smiled for a moment. "I sleep on the right side."

Wilson pulled his hand away from around House, and wiped away the tears on his cheek. "I'll take the left."

**Beauty Comes in Booms**

Their first kiss lit up the sky.

With a boom that rocked the street and a crack that split the sky, red and green burst like flames streaking across the night, a high-pitched whistle screeching through the air, and then small bursts of colour followed the flowering fire that painted the black sky.

Without even giving his ears a chance, a second and third explosion rent through the air and blue and purple lights flashed across the sky, the normally unpleasant scent of sulphur and smoke somehow pleasing for the time being.

People wouldn't think it looking at him, but a small part of Wilson's family broke away from their stereotypical picturesque farce of a life. Considering how long House and Wilson had been friends, even House was surprised he'd never been invited to his cousins' annual celebration of Fourth of July. He'd heard Wilson talk of the spectacular celebration before hundreds of times, but even Wilson's verbose ways couldn't have prepared him for it. After all, House had seen the annual fireworks display over the Hudson river-once you celebrate one Fourth of July, you've celebrated them all, really.

Wilson hadn't always been able to go and before today, House hadn't ever understood why Wilson always seemed a little depressed whenever he couldn't. Wilson would always brush it off as life as an adult-not always being able to do whatever he wanted whenever he chose. Important meetings or not enough vacation time or badly timed bus crashes prevented him from hopping a plane to Wyoming and watching the spectacular fireworks show.

And yes. Wilson had cousins in Wyoming.

Every joke, every scoff, every insult had been thrown Wilson's way on the ride there, but for every interesting thing Wyoming lacked (and _that_ list was endless) it made up for on one day out of the year.

New Jersey's firework laws were strict, boring, and uninteresting-the show over the Hudson was really the only way to see anything interesting. Wyoming, apparently, didn't have laws. If they did, clearly the state viewed it more as a suggestion. Or at least, the small town of Evanston, Wyoming did.

Every other time the Fourth of July had come up and Wilson could go, he'd been otherwise involved with some soulless, life-sucking harpy. Technically, he still was, but apparently this sect of the Wilson Tribe hated Sam more than House did, and that was really saying something. Apparently, Sam had been disapproving of their shenanigans or some other such crap; the stories had been vague because nobody wanted to destroy the good mood, but it appeared she felt the same and had decided she didn't want to go.

House had been reluctant at first. As a misanthrope, it was his duty to hate all holidays-especially ones that didn't involve him receiving a gift of some kind. Fourth of July with his parents had always been unsatisfactory; nothing more than sparklers and barbecues and as for the celebration over the Hudson, as fun as it was to watch the fireworks House had always felt some sort of detachment from it. Still, Wilson had insisted that getting away for a few days would be best, considering that House's decision to date Cuddy had exploded pretty spectacularly in everybody's face; one too-harsh insult thrown in the middle of an argument in the clinic and a difference of opinion on appropriate workplace behaviour later, and their failed experiment known as dating ended.

Nobody had been surprised, least of all House.

Sam and Wilson's relationship was starting to spiral quicker than House had expected, and he knew Wilson could sense the end approaching, too. They were simply two grown men facing the reality that they were too screwed up and lost for anybody but each other, handling failed relationships and middle-age as best as they could. So he'd agreed; a vacation away from the searing glares of Cuddy and snarls painted on every female in the hospital couldn't have come at a better time.

It had started as he'd expected-it was a trailer court in a small town, but the trailers were neither stereotypically trashy or rundown. It was quite a few steps down from what he'd expected from someone with the Wilson surname, but House had never really been too picky about that sort of thing-and Wilson, surprisingly, fit right in.

He'd replaced the suit and tie with jeans and a long-sleeved white button-up, sleeves rolled up halfway up his forearm. They held a barbecue with their extended family, close friends, and neighbours. They served hotdogs and hamburgers while handing beer and soda out freely. They enjoyed House's company, they didn't balk at his inappropriate sense of humour-all in all, it was the exact opposite of the day-to-day lifestyle of prim-and-proper James Wilson.

The sky hadn't even turned fully black yet and he could hear the distant pops of fireworks exploding, and within a few minutes the sky melted into ebony and everywhere he looked he could see greens and yellows and purples blooming across the sky; flashes of white and pops of yellows fizzled through the air and laughter bubbled from every corner. As far as the eye could see, fireworks zoomed into the air, non-stop explosions and colours lighting up the sky.

"Oi, James!" one of his female cousins called. Wilson, who had been sitting beside House with an idiotic grin plastered on his face while he stared up at the sky, turned to face her. "You and Greg gonna do a Roman Candle War or what?"

Wilson grabbed House's arm and hauled him to his feet. Sprawling out on the driveway and arching his head up to watch not only their fireworks but their neighbours' as well had been relaxing for a moment, but now House's ass was asleep and a bit cold from the pavement. "You think you can manage?" Wilson asked quietly so nobody would overhear.

House started limping over to Jo, the cousin holding the long, thin tubes with ROMAN CANDLE painted on the side elaborately. "Probably not," he answered, then jerked one free.

"Don't go too far-the neighbours are getting ready for their finale," she warned, gesturing over with her chin.

House glanced to see the neighbours setting every last firework on the asphalt, ushering the children into the yard and behind the fence while two or three adults sat on their lawn chairs in the driveway, smoking cigarettes and talking excitedly.

Wilson grabbed his roman candle and Jo lit them both with her lighter. "Hurry up," she said with a grin.

They both hurried into the street, at least ten paces away from each other. They both raised their long, cylindrical "guns" at each other, and a firework from somewhere nearby lit up the area so brightly he could see the huge grin on Wilson's face, who'd been acting a bit like a precocious child ever since the first firework went off.

It occurred to House he hadn't seen Wilson grin like that in a very long time.

He remembered each of Wilson's relatives telling him in turn about a previous Plus One (as vaguely as they could) Wilson had decided to bring along. Sam hadn't been too bad at first until they'd all gotten into a firecracker war-which meant sneaking up on someone and throwing firecrackers under their feet. House had participated in a few just in the last few hours; with the exception of tinnitus, it held no real threat. Sam had apparently disagreed.

Wilson's shot off a ball of blue flame first and it went straight for House's head. He ducked just in time and with a sound that was half a poof and half a whine, his shot off an orange ball, which arced spectacularly over Wilson's head and skittered along the black asphalt of the street.

They both started laughing, and House thought of Bonnie, who had apparently coldly sat by and sneered at every cousin enjoying himself a little too much; any kid who chased another with a sparkler or any grown man who hollered in excitement at a large boom got a scoff from her. By that time, their marriage had already spiralled into cold non-existence.

Somebody threw a pack of firecrackers under Wilson's feet. Wilson yelped and then jumped away, two balls of flame flying out at once; one green and one purple, missing House by a good few feet. House shot off a bright purple one and a yellow one followed immediately and then he started advancing on Wilson. He held his cane in his right so he held the roman candle in his left; his aim was suffering because of it.

Julie had shown once, but had apparently stayed in the house the whole time, getting steadily drunker on wine coolers.

House was practically chasing Wilson now, who was half-running backwards, their ammo shooting sporadically and without much aim. Fireworks from nearby houses shot up into the air, lighting their way, and Wilson was laughing so loud House could almost hear him over the ear-splitting squeal and sky-shaking boom from the trailer across the street. House's vision flashed with red and then white, and he felt something hot zoom past his cheek; Wilson had almost hit him.

Still, out of all the previous wives and girlfriends Wilson had brought along, Jo had specifically told him; "You know, he's only like this when he's alone. Whenever his wives came, he was so . . . subdued." He heard somebody holler but he couldn't tell if it was out of excitement or warning; his ears were ringing and another firework lit up the sky, making it difficult for him to see the colour of his last shot. "With you, he really enjoys himself."

The lights died down and the night was silent for a full second; long enough for House to see a green ball of flame heading right towards his face. He jumped back and batted at the firework at the same time, landing on his right foot awkwardly. Pain shot up into his thigh and he crumbled, landing on his back and letting out a humph of air, unable to breathe for a horribly long second.

He heard Wilson shout his name and then the neighbours, who were behind House, let out a whoop and the world exploded all around him. The black sky was replaced entirely with streaks of blue, green, red and white; sparks swirled like corkscrews and white lights popped and fizzled. The sounds overlapped; squeals and pops and explosions rocked the ground beneath him and split the air above him.

He rested on his elbows in the street, staring up at the black night breaking around him; tearing in half and bursting with colours. Being up close and personal with hundreds of families all around him shooting off their own fireworks-being right in the thick of it-was completely different than sitting calmly and watching a show back home.

Wilson knelt beside him, face looming with lights dancing across his cheeks; sparking in his eyes, his hair mussed and wild.

"Are you okay?" he saw more than heard Wilson ask, his square palm grabbing House's shoulder and ridiculous eyebrows halfway up his forehead.

He thought of how many clinic patients he'd had over the years with first to third burns from shooting off illegal fireworks and how, just seconds before, they'd been shooting each other in the face with them.

"We're complete morons!" House had answered, knowing he was grinning like either an idiot or a child, and Wilson's face broke out into a grin as well.

He grabbed Wilson by the scruff of his shirt and pulled him down into a kiss, and had no idea why he'd done it. Wilson made a noise that was impossible to decipher through the explosions, and then grasped onto House's arms like he was hanging on for dear life, and thrust his tongue in his mouth.

House knew Wilson had Sam waiting for him in their loft, and he knew all of his relatives were watching and possibly their neighbours, too. He also knew that even though his eyes were closed, when Wilson attacked his mouth wildly and swallowed his moans, he could still see fireworks.

* * *

A/N-Well, that's the final chapter! I hope you guys enjoyed.


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